


Cacciatore

by thedalishparade



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Paris, Catamites, F/F, Feudalism, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Light Angst, Mentioned Freys, Minor Renly Baratheon/Loras Tyrell, Nobility, Paris (City), Prostitution, Short & Sweet, The Starks are alive but the Tyrells are dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-20 02:17:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14250924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedalishparade/pseuds/thedalishparade
Summary: But the queen of thorns does not dwell on the past, does not let painful memories taint her petals, and so she takes Sansa’s mouth into her own, savouring the sweet taste like fine wine.





	Cacciatore

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Salvatore by Lana Del Rey. In which Margaery is an Italian prostitute and Sansa is a French maiden.

_The summer's hot_

_And I've been waiting for you all this time_

_I adore you, can't you see, you're meant for me?_

_Summer's hot but I've been cold without you_

_I was so wrong not to tell, I'm in regine, tangerine dreams_

[-](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pET7F0lGnnM)Salvatore; Lana Del Rey

 

She walks the streets with a rose in hand, lace-clad, poised.

The streets gleam with neon splendour, a faint stench of gutter blood a warning beneath the quintessential Parisian beauty.

Even in the land of red lights, there is glamour.

There is dignity in the arched backs and the painted smiles of the whores here. They run the beggar’s quarters, the tap houses, the brothels. They are beauty and they are danger, knives of ruby hues.

Her fawn waves would cascade to her waist if not for the enormous pin that is her crown; a rose with thorns that snake down to the tips. She is Margaery Tyrell, queen of the whores.

Twin daggers grin from her swaying hips as she saunters, inlaid with precious gems. Her smile is a third; a wicked thing, scarlet and sharply edged.

 

It is not a client she seeks tonight, but a lover.

 

Stiletto points turn the corner of an alleyway within Margaery’s vision. She grins.

This is a game they have, her and the little mademoiselle, who sneaks out of the ever watchful gaze of her grim father and envious mother. Deviant is the word to describe her behaviour, though Margaery is not sure if she cares. The lady is only Sansa to her, and Sansa will be hers.

 

The scent of dough and soft flesh wafts across her. Margaery knows it. The baker’s boy who fucks Madame Frey from the grey towers. She does not care. She passes by them in the heat of the moment, rutting against each other beside a trough.

 

Margery is close. She knows it.She knows Sansa’s scent, too; of the sharply sweet scent of the lemon tarts she loves to eat at high tea, of the lilac aroma of the gardens where they meet at midnight. The cold air of the castle where the Starks dwell. And finally, at its base, the scent ofwolf and rosemary, a scent that is so distinctly Sansa that Margery just has to follow her nose to find the girl of her desires.

 

For what seems like the millionth time, Margery is glad that she does not don the high-necked collars and netted skirts and sky-high wigs that the nobles so love. There was a time, as a girl, when she had felt lesser than she was and had attempted to correct that by imitating her oppressors, but it had been fruitless. With only a corset and a skirt that clings to her thighs, she is free to pursue Sansa as she wishes.

 

A note flutters from the sky, previously clutched by a dove that now flies away, soaring above the chase. Margaery spares it a brief glance,

 

_Catch me if you can._

 

How cute. Margery scribbles back a reply.

 

_Ciao, Amore._

 

And the dove flutters back to its original owner.

Margaery suddenly feels a sudden pain in her side, and gasps, head bent, splayed palms on knees. She glares at the ground. So close, and halted by a mere cramp. Her predator’s poise has vanished, her hair ragged and falling in strands. The iridescent brooch reflects the light of the midday sun, casting sunspots across the cobbled tiles.

 

She is not free. This is not where she should be, in the sun-baked canals of her homeland, with nothing to block the open sky from her gaze. But here, she is deadly, and she has every corner and every shadow at her leisure.

 

A deep breath later, and Margery resumes the hunt.

 

Hours later, she finally finds a girl with hair the colour of the dying sky behind her, reposing softly upon a velvet chaise. They are at the centre of the maze, where nobody will disturb them.

 

Margery loves her gentle lover, the way Sansa’s peach lips flutter against her own crimson ones, tasting of sweet innocence and infinite bliss. She needs Sansa, needs her when the winter comes and everything turns cold and turns to dust. Just like Loras. Her poor brother, former catamite to the wrong king. How they’d loved each other in their own way for the brief few months before their heads both ended up on pikes.

 

Margery prays to the seven that she does not end up like them. It is bad enough that she has been forced into the position that she is currently in.

 

Loras’ body, however, ended up buried under a weeping willow, where Margery sometimes visits. He is buried alongside their father, their grandmother, and all the other poor souls who died under the long-gone banner of the black dragon. House Tyrell is gone, shattered. Save for Margery, the dog rose among them.

 

But the queen of thorns does not dwell on the past, does not let painful memories taint her petals, and so she takes Sansa’s mouth into her own, savouring the sweet taste like fine wine.

 

If Lord Stark knew his precious daughter was being deflowered by none other than the woman whose brother he had sent to the black, he’d surely have a heart attack.


End file.
